Don Pierino was doing his best to get rid of Signorina Vaccaro. She was a prominent and influential member of his parish congregation, a woman who was very wealthy and very, very elderly. Legends circulated among the faithful in the neighborhood to the effect that she was well over a hundred, but it seemed more likely that once she’d reached eighty, she’d decided to linger at that finish line, giving that as her official age for at least another ten years.
Periodically—every three days, to be exact—she decided that the time had come to update the higher echelons of the local church on her precarious state of health, and woe betide the hapless recipient of her report. The parish priest, Don Tommaso, had become a master of evasion, and always managed to disappear the moment before the signorina came hobbling down the main aisle. Actually Don Pierino suspected that his direct superior had assembled a network of scouts, and that some faithless altar boy must be delivering warning signals in the form of sharp whistles or some other piece of secret-agent tradecraft. The fact remains that it was always Don Pierino who fell into the arthritis-warped talons of that little old lady. Signorina Vaccaro, convinced that the accruement of all her earthly sufferings, along with her much-touted chastity, constituted a general fund of merits that would ensure her entry into a comfortable and everlasting Heaven, was determined that her Father Confessors should be promptly informed of every development in the progress of her countless maladies.
As he stood listening to Signorina Vaccaro tell of the debilitating effects of her most recent bout of dysentery, Don Pierino smiled and nodded. Short and stout, dark complected, with gleaming dark eyes like a pair of black olives, the assistant parish priest was much beloved by his flock, and especially by the great many poor and sick parishioners who lived in the populous city quarter that fell under the administration of the church of San Ferdinando. If there were hungry, sick, or parasite-ridden children, Don Pierino was always the first to offer to help, with his broad, contagious smile and the inborn optimism that characterized his faith.
Don Pierino possessed a cheerful faith, a faith that was filled with love of all creation and, therefore, of God. He also loved art, and especially music, for which he had a voracious appetite. He loved the countryside, though he was rarely able to return to it. And he loved the sea, which was far from his birthplace in Santa Maria Capua Vetere, but he’d quickly made friends with the waves and the salt air of Naples, unfamiliar though they’d been at first.
Signorina Vaccaro had just moved on to the effects of an especially uncomfortable gastritis attack, complete with graphic descriptions which Don Pierino would gladly have done without, when he thought he saw a familiar figure in the dim light of a side altar. A fond and familiar figure.
He’d first met Ricciardi during the investigation into the murder of the tenor Arnaldo Vezzi, a murder to which he’d unsuspectingly been a witness. The two men couldn’t have been any more different in terms of personality, education, passions, and faith, but they’d established a relationship that, if not exactly a friendship, was at least a bond of powerful empathy. He was intrigued by Ricciardi’s green eyes, which at first glance seemed cold: they were a window into an inner world of grief and suffering, of pain whose cause he could not confess.
The cheerful little priest sensed a heart imprisoned, trapped behind the iron bars of who knows what memory; but a big heart, a heart full of compassion for his fellow human being.
Ricciardi wasn’t the kind of man who would come to see him if he didn’t have a serious reason. And he felt sure that Signorina Vaccaro would survive both the gastritis and the interruption to their conversation. He told her that he needed to hear the confession of someone who, he was afraid, might have committed murder during an armed robbery in someone’s home—knowing this to be one of his parishioner’s special bugbears. Signorina Vaccaro’s eyes grew round and, to keep the criminal from identifying her, she disappeared from the church at a surprising speed, evidently forgetting her debilitating arthritis for the moment.
Don Pierino hurried toward Ricciardi with his usual bouncing gait, mentally asking God’s forgiveness for his white lie.
“Commissario, what an enormous pleasure! How are you? I heard about the accident and I immediately hurried over to the hospital, but you’d already gone home, in defiance of your doctor’s orders. Did you feel what a fine chilly wind we’re getting? Then again, what kind of Christmas would it be if it were hot out?”
Ricciardi returned the priest’s greeting, with a brief handshake, after which he thrust his nervous hand back into his pocket.
“Don Pierino. It’s a pleasure to see you, too, and you know it. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been by to see you for a while, but . . . well, you heard about it. How are you?”
The assistant parish priest smiled, his fingers knit over his belly.
“Fine, fine. As the Lord wishes me to be. I’m certainly in no position to complain, don’t you agree? You see worse cases than I do, on the streets out there. You know that none of us can really complain.”
“In fact, quite true. I need to trouble you for some information, as usual. Can you spare a few minutes of your time?”
“Absolutely, of course . . . In fact, you just saved me from a long conversation, with that elderly signorina you saw when you came in, so I owe you my full attention. Ask, ask away.”
Ricciardi registered the priest’s willingness to help, then asked:
“Can we talk a little about the nativity scene, Padre?”
Don Pierino flashed a happy smile, like a scugnizzo who had just been offered a trip to the pastry shop.
“Of course we can! Come, come with me, prego.”
He locked arms with Ricciardi, who though not a giant was certainly far taller than the priest, and walked him thirty feet or so to where, in front of one of the side altars, a manger scene had been set up. The construction covered quite a bit of floor space, at least eighty square feet, and it featured large antique shepherds in the foreground, declining in size toward the background, creating a remarkable illusion of depth. Ricciardi was impressed in spite of himself.
Don Pierino was bouncing up and down like a little boy.
“Beautiful, eh? Don’t you think it’s beautiful? I do it myself, with the help of a few of the boys who attend the parish school. Many of the figures are very old, they’ve belonged to the church for centuries; others have been donated more recently by our congregation, over the past several years. Others still we purchased ourselves, or else they were made by parishioners who are skilled at making clothing or working with terra-cotta.”
Ricciardi studied them, fascinated.
“Impressive, very impressive, Padre. Really nice, my compliments. Tell me, is there a symbology to the figures? In other words, do they represent anything?”
Don Pierino nodded, never taking his eyes off the miniature landscape.
“Of course they do, Commissario. The manger scene is one of our people’s most venerable and well-established traditions. In it, throughout the various phases of this city’s history, situations and characters have been depicted that over time have come to form part of our popular imagination. You see, each and every nativity scene, even the poorest and most rudimentary, has three levels: at the top is Herod’s castle, there, representing power and arrogance; in the middle is the countryside, with the flock, the shepherds, and all the rest; at the bottom, and in the foreground, is the cavern with the nativity. And dotting the landscape are the ruins of the temple, symbolizing the triumph of Christianity over the pagan gods; the tavern, which symbolizes the human predilection for sin; and so forth. Each element of the manger scene has a meaning, and the principal elements have more than one.”
Ricciardi listened, absorbed.
“Everything has one or more meanings, you say. Could you give me some examples, Padre?”
The priest cheerfully complied. This was his topic, and he was happy to be able to talk about it.
“Certainly. Let’s start with the locations and the architectural elements. I’ve already told you about the temple and the tavern; concerning the tavern I’d also point out that the banquet you see under way here, inside, is a reference to the fact that all the inns and taverns refused accommodations to the Holy Family. It represents human wickedness and selfishness, which the advent of Christ is bound to illuminate. The oven, which you see there, is always present in the manger scene; not only does it illustrate one of the most ancient trades, it also refers to the bread that, along with wine, is one of the foundations of our Christian faith. The bridge over the river, which you see in the background, refers to an ancient legend according to which three babies, killed specifically for this purpose, were buried in its foundations, as part of an enchantment intended to ensure its arches would hold strong. It symbolizes the union—the bridge, in fact—between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The well is another element that is always included, and it represents a direct link to the underworld. As you can see, darkness and evil also play a part in the nativity scene. Just like in life, no?”
Ricciardi thought about it. A bridge joining the world of the living with the world of the dead. If he himself had been a shepherd in the scene, they would have placed him squarely in the middle of that bridge.
Those thoughts aside, in any case, the symbolism of the manger scene struck him as quite intricate. It would be much harder than he’d anticipated to understand just what the murderer had been trying to convey by breaking the statuette of Saint Joseph. Provided he had been trying to say anything at all.
“What about the characters, Padre? Do they have meanings, too?”
Don Pierino nodded.
“Naturally, Commissario. You see the market, in the background? Each character represents a month. January is the butcher, February is the man selling ricotta, and so on, all the way round to December, which is represented by the fishmonger. There are twelve of them. The gypsy girl, with her basket full of iron tools, predicts the future, while the iron symbolizes Jesus’s fate, to die on the cross. The man sleeping on the ground by the flock of sheep . . . this story is a choice one . . . represents the fact that the coming of Christ woke us from the sleep of ignorance to the true faith. He therefore symbolizes the stupid, and he has always been called, by popular tradition, Benito. Well, these days, for obvious reasons, no one calls him that anymore. Now they just call him ‘the sleeping shepherd.’ But everyone knows his real name, and they all just cover their mouths and laugh.”
This still wasn’t the information that Ricciardi needed.
“Padre, what about the Holy Family? Does it have a symbolism, too: a significance?”
Don Pierino spread his open hands.
“Of course it does, Commissario. Forgive me if I’ve been rattling on, I could talk about the manger scene for hours. The Holy Family, naturally: Baby Jesus, childhood, wisdom, candor and innocence. The Madonna, motherhood, intercession, purity. Saint Joseph—”
Ricciardi bore in.
“Saint Joseph?”
“Saint Joseph, Commissario, represents a number of different things. He’s the most human, being neither a virgin mother nor a son of God. He’s a man, and in fact, as you can see, he’s dressed as a shepherd. But he’s also the putative father of Jesus, as well as a carpenter. For Christianity he represents, in addition to fatherhood, hard work, the labor that life demands of us so that we can raise our children, daily sacrifice.”
Ricciardi asked the question he’d been wanting to put to the priest since the beginning.
“And, in your opinion, Padre, if someone profaned just that one statuette in a nativity scene, the one of Saint Joseph, what might that mean?”
Don Pierino raised his hand to his chin and stroked it, thoughtfully.
“It’s certainly not a very nice thing to do, Commissario. I have no idea. I believe that the reference would have to be to work, and to fatherhood. Someone who wished to express their unhappiness at having been stripped of one of those two rights, especially the right to work, to earn a living. Saint Joseph is the patron saint of workers. That’s all I can tell you.”
The commissario stood for a long time staring at the manger scene of the church of San Ferdinando, illuminated by a thousand tiny lightbulbs and by the candles lit by the faithful. Graces asked and received, wishes, symbols, saints: what a complicated city, he thought.
“Thank you, Padre. I’m grateful. I may come bother you again, we’re working on a rather complex case.”
Don Pierino smiled at him, blissfully.
“It’s always a delight to see you, as far as I’m concerned, Commissario. You know what I think of you: in your heart there’s more love than you could even imagine. See you soon, come back whenever you like.”
Don Pierino walked the commissario all the way outside, to the front steps of the church. Before taking his leave, Ricciardi turned to face the priest and said:
“Padre, one last thing: Why was Saint Sebastian killed with so many arrows?”
Don Pierino scratched his head.
“Saint Sebastian, did you say? One of the earliest martyrs. He was the head of the guards of Diocletian, a Roman emperor who was a terrible persecutor of the Christians. Sebastian converted to Christianity, and when the emperor found out, he had him tied to a pole and shot full of arrows by a platoon of archers. That’s why he’s depicted that way, with all the arrows sticking out of him. And that’s why he’s the patron saint—”
“Of the militia, yes, I know. Thanks again, Padre. Your help is always invaluable.”
And he left, followed by the gazes of the priest and of a woman hidden behind a metal roller blind that was lowered halfway.